The Wish
by DSLeo
Summary: In which a bad morning, Luke, and a granted wish turn Stars Hollow upside down. Set roughly S2-ish, post-Max, AU, LL.


Disclaimer: This isn't mine. Neither is "Buffy the Vampire Slayer", which inspired this fic. I'm not that awesome, or wealthy. Darn it.

Summary: In which a bad morning, Luke, and a granted wish turn Stars Hollow upside down. Set roughly S2-ish, post-Max, AU, LL.

Genre: Humor/Angst

Rating: Teen

AN: As noted in the disclaimer, an episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" inspired the basic idea of this fic. So did my own rotten mood. Also, please refrain from telling me I'm assassinating Luke's character… Until you read the *whole* fic. Thank you.

GG GG GG

 **A Bad Morning**

Luke Danes woke up after four hours of sleep. He had early deliveries. It was never late deliveries. It was always early morning when he had deliveries. It was possibly the only thing he had in common with an obstetrician.

He stumbled to his shower, barking his shin on the toilet, and he cursed. He stood under room-temperature water, because the hot water heater did not turn on until five in the morning, and it was barely four-thirty-six. He soaped up. He got soap in his bleary eyes. He cursed again, grabbed his towel, and dropped it into the tub in his attempt to wipe the suds from his face.

He yelled a very profane word, slammed a palm against the wall, and the shower head fell off. It struck his foot.

Luke Danes uttered a string of words that a US Navy drill instructor would blush to hear, stepped into cold air with cold water on his skin, and wrung out the towel as his temper steamed him dry.

For a moment, he thought maybe the flannel plaid bathrobe should be kept in his actual bathroom, but that would mean one more thing cluttering his apartment, adding to his laundry pile, and reminding him that Lorelai Gilmore knew him. Even when she gave him a goofball, stupid gift like a flannel bathrobe, she _knew_ him. If he were ever to use a bathrobe, it would be the one in his closet, still in its box, wrapped in tissue paper, as it had been since his birthday. He hadn't even been able to tell her that it wasn't his style. It was a cozy combed flannel. It was a deep, tasteful, muted blue and green plaid. He'd have bought it, if he'd bought it.

Thinking of Lorelai before his first cup of tea soured his mood further. Rachel left. He thought it over. Then Lorelai had Max. She dumped Max. He was doing absolutely nothing about the situation. Why bother? They flirted, sure, between bouts of friendship, but what did that mean? For all he knew, Lorelai hair-flipped and all that for _any_ man.

Once he'd used a pair of kitchen towels to dry off, he remembered rather too late that he'd meant to do some laundry, but hadn't. He had no clean boxers, one clean pair of jeans, and one clean flannel shirt. He'd be going commando, which was one thing, but doing it in denim, which was quite another. The word _chafing_ did not describe the problem, particularly since Luke preferred jeans that (he hated admitting it) would get female attention focused on his backside.

It was a no-win. Luke hated those. He faced either chafing, or wearing an old athletic cup in his jeans, which would attract attention to his _front_. And that was not something he could abide, with Miss Patty as a regular customer.

Finally compromising by sprinkling old jock-itch powder into his jeans, Luke dressed for his day, growling wordless frustration as he stalked downstairs to open the back door.

He was ten minutes into transferring baked goods from truck to walk-in cooler, when expired jock-itch powder reminded him _why_ you didn't use expired jock-itch powder.

It itched.

He ducked into the storeroom of giant cans of tomatoes and jars of pickles, and did the certified hip-skip-squirm required to scratch himself, and ran upstairs in despair to change into other jeans. Any other jeans. If he could get away with sweatpants, he would.

He arrived panting by his hamper to find that he'd at some point put all that in the washer, and he'd have to wait until mid-morning for clean dry jeans and boxers.

And it was time to prepare the kitchen, take the chairs off the tables, and open the diner before Kirk had a nervous breakdown.

For a day that started at four-thirty, six o'clock certainly had snuck up quickly.

By eight-fifteen, the diner was crowded. Hot with people, frying pancakes and bacon, umpteen pots of coffee, and the chatter of the morning regulars. Babette's screechy laugh, Miss Patty's ringing giggles, Taylor's pursed-mouth descant of displeasure, Kirk's odd drone, tourists comparing antique stores, Caesar humming at the grill, the clank and clatter of forks, knives, spoons, plates, cups. It was a cacophony that should, by all logic, equal the _cha-ching_ of money in the cash register. The problem was, his waiter had called in sick, and all Luke could hear was "Order up!" and "Refill!" and "Luke, napkins!" and…

"Coffee, please!"

He cringed. Of all times to have to deal with Lorelai and her bits.

"I don't have time for you," he told her bluntly, handed her a pot of coffee, and two mugs. "Pancakes, bacon, death on a plate, fine."

"Um," said Lorelai, "good morning? And I was actually going to ask…"

Luke rounded on her. "Do I look like I care what you were going to ask? Like I have time for it?"

"Uh, if you wanted me to help out and do a round of refills," said Lorelai in a small voice, poured two mugs, and returned the pot. She put an arm around Rory and left the counter to squeeze in by Miss Patty.

Relieved, Luke dashed to throw napkins at Kirk, grab three plates from Caesar, and dodge Babette's, "Hey, handsome, what…"

He skidded to a halt, rang up four checks, knowing he'd have no tips for service, and did a controlled sprint with a tub and washrag to bus and clean tables. The drone and screech and murmurs of the regulars were more audible, which meant the rush was beginning its ebb.

The bells on the door jangled.

A woman said, "Whoops!"

Red with rage, Luke dropped a check on Taylor's table and just managed to catch a woman by the elbow. "Damn it, Kirk, if you spill something, clean it up!"

"I didn't!" yipped Kirk.

"Really," huffed Taylor.

"It's raining," said the woman, "my shoes were wet. Thanks."

There were three tables open, but Luke had no desire to walk that far. "Space at the counter if you want," he said and delivered pancakes and bacon to the Gilmores. He hated the feel of Lorelai's big concerned blue eyes on his back. What was her problem? Why didn't these people just all realize…

"I'd like an egg-white omelet, please."

It was the woman at the counter.

Luke scribbled on his order pad. "What kind of omelet?"

"Oh, the green pepper and onion, but no cheese, please, and whole wheat toast, no butter, if that's all right."

He grunted, inwardly glad that someone finally appreciated the options on the menu that didn't end in a cardiac care unit.

"Tea, coffee…"

"Juice, thank you."

Her presence was oddly soothing. She seemed to Luke to be the calm in the center of a storm. But he could not linger.

Sighing at the necessities of his life, he put in her order, rang up four more bills, and cleared the tables. He scrubbed them quickly, though the only people left were all residents. Gypsy, who had probably been working since six, and was taking a mid-morning break for coffee and danish; Andrew, ducking in before he opened the bookstore; the weirdo who ran the ceramic unicorn shop. Naturally, they had to sit at separate tables. He stifled a groan, and was glad to slide a plate in front of the woman at the counter. "White and green omelet, no cheese, whole wheat no butter, orange juice fresh squeezed this morning."

"Mm, I can tell."

Luke didn't comment, as he would have to, say, Lorelai, that he'd done the orange-smashing to distract himself from his (ahem) _troubles_.

Speaking of Lorelai…

He turned, barking, "Why isn't Rory in school!"

Rory said quickly, "Chilton doesn't have electricity, a car hit a…"

Luke turned away. Seething, although at that point he was no longer sure _why_. He was; ergo, he seethed.

The woman at the counter said in passing, as he whisked a danish onto a plate for Andrew, "If they only knew, right?"

"I wish they did," growled Luke.

The woman's eyes caught Luke's as he spoke. Her smile grew. Her voice had an eerie resonance as she whispered, " _Wish granted_."

GG GG GG

 **A Bad Mouth**

The words " _Wish granted_ " faded.

Luke blinked, not certain he'd heard them.

The woman at the counter leaned back, sipping her juice, her smile oddly delighted.

Luke thought to himself, _Kook_.

The diner chatter hesitated, as if sound itself hiccupped, then resumed.

A familiar sugared voice crooned, "Oh, Luke honey, do you mind bringing that sweet…"

Luke thought, _Does Miss Patty's libido take a day off? An hour? Can she spend one damn day not ogling something of mine?_

Miss Patty gasped, cheeks fuchsia, and put a hand to her ample bosom.

Babette squawked, "Hey! Now that's…"

 _God, her voice is a chainsaw on stone_ , thought Luke.

Babette's blue eyes rounded, and she snapped, "I never!"

"That was very rude," opined Taylor serenely, nursing a cup of coffee merely to prolong his ability to view the spectacle.

Simmering at this nonsense, Luke mentally promised, _Shut up, Taylor, or swear to God you're wearing that coffee!_

Breath, and coffee, exploded from Taylor's mouth. "What did you say, young man?" He rose, attempting and failing to look intimidating. "I know for a fact your parents did _not_ …"

 _Like my parents gave that loser the time of day_ , was Luke's uncharitable musing.

Taylor slapped down some currency, and stormed out.

Kirk rose hastily, crying out, "Taylor, you forgot your change!"

 _God, Kirk, grow a set. Move out of your mother's house, get a girlfriend, hell, just get away from Taylor, be a man!_

Kirk's lower lip trembled.

With a growl, Gypsy stood, said, "I don't know what's wrong with you today, but I'm not gonna put up with it."

Outside, Luke grunted and took her money. Inside himself, Luke snarled, _Nobody asked you to!_

Gypsy's eyes flashed malice at him over her shoulder and she _almost_ slammed the door. Luke might have commented but his mind was busy with the same work as his hands, accepting money and making change, as a few stray tourists paid their bills before their plates were empty. _Damn it, Caesar always overdoes the scrambled eggs…_

"No I don't!" muttered Caesar, and that was when Luke realized he'd said that out loud.

Hadn't he?

Had he?

Scowling, he grumbled aloud to be sure, "Damn it, look at all this mess," and stacked plates and cups into the tub. He counted a clear waste of a dozen eggs, half a loaf of bread, when people were starving, and now he'd have to waste water to clean this when they could've simply done him the favor of eating.

"Luke?" said Andrew very timidly. "I, um…"

He glared at Andrew, who carried his cup and plate to the pass-through window as if moved on sticks and strings. He dropped his money on a table before he, too, fled the diner.

Only Caesar and a pair of stunned Gilmores remained once Luke pocketed the five-dollar bill Andrew left, his frown changing from a twist of anger to a crinkle of confusion. Nobody had waited for him to make change. He'd have a hell of a time reconciling the register and receipts, and who was owed what.

"It's not that bad," said Rory comfortingly, but in a shy voice. "I could, um, help? I mean, there's no school at Chilton because of the power outage, and…"

Unable to find a graceful way to tell Rory to go to hell, Luke internally boiled, _What can you know about reconciling receipts? Your mother can't balance a checkbook!_

Rory squeaked, gave him a wild pouting look, and with a loud inhalation that might have been, "Bye?", she ran outside, the door bells jangling loudly. Luke grunted with a mental shrug. A flighty Gilmore was nothing new.

Lorelai studied her purse, carefully counting out coins and one-dollar bills. She said unsteadily, "You can be grumpy, we know that. We're used to it. It's part of the whole Diner Guy Burger Boy charm thing you have going. But don't you _ever_ speak to or about Rory like that again. Are we clear?"

From the depths of Luke's irritation arose the very unkind, resentful rumination, _Says the woman who never shuts up and can't keep her knees together unless I'm in the room._

The gasp he heard wasn't Lorelai. It was Morey.

Lorelai got to her feet, eyes brimming, and tossed her head. The hair-flip was normally a weapon in her flirtation arsenal, but it could be a lethal dismissal, as it was that moment. She stared hard at Luke, whose mouth hung open, and whose mind whirled in confusion. _What the hell…_

Without a word, Lorelai squared her shoulders and walked out, the door quite graciously held open by Morey.

After a cold sneer in Luke's direction, Morey stooped, picking up Babette's forgotten purse, and grated solemnly, "Not. Cool."

The door gave a quiet _thud_ as it closed.

Caesar exploded from the kitchen. "What is your problem? _Boss_? I know you think everyone around here is some kind of nutjob, but you don't _say_ it! To their faces! And since when do I overcook eggs? You want perfect eggs, do 'em yourself!"

A faint grasp of the situation began to manifest. Luke stammered, red-faced, "I said that out loud?"

Caesar muttered.

Luke paled, to an ashen-gray under his stubble. "Hey! I know Spanish!"

"I know," spat Caesar, and tossed his apron onto the counter. "Look, bad morning, okay, fine, just spell me at the grill like usual!"

Luke repeated, rather less uncertainly, "I said all that out loud."

"You bad-mouthed Miss Patty, insulted Babette's voice…" Caesar trailed off. "Okay, I give you that, it's bad sometimes, but… You threatened to dump coffee on Taylor, you made Kirk cry, and you called Lorelai a slut."

"I'd never say that!" roared Luke, blood thumping into his face, his ears, his chest, but seeming to bypass his brain entirely. How dare anyone bad-mouth Lorelai! Okay, he might bad-think her, but that was a mood, a passing frustration, a defense against the fact he'd do anything to ask her out other than ask her out.

Caesar's face was all rounded shapes of surprise. Luke slammed a hand over his mouth. He thought frantically, _I am not saying these things!_

His lips did not move. He _felt_ that they did not move. Yet Caesar whispered, "Uh, boss? You just said you're not saying things. But you… Did you learn ventriloquism or something? To mess with Taylor? Did someone start a prank war?"

"Ahem."

Luke turned, startled, his order pad held up like a shield. Caesar gave a yelp, and side-stepped, as if he expected an incoming cream pie to strike his face.

The woman at the counter said languidly, "You said all of it. After all, you did want them to know what you thought, didn't you."

Luke thought, _Oh sh…_

The woman snapped a picture. "Worth a thousand words," she purred, and waited for the square of film to whir from the camera. She shook it, set it down, and winked. "Consider that my tip."

She strolled out of the diner, carrying with her a whiff of what was either a spring breeze over asphalt, or sulfur and brimstone.

"We're closed," whispered Luke.

"Good," said Caesar, and flipped the sign, locked the door, closed the blinds. He clocked out, the back door banging loudly to signal his exit.

Luke sank to a stool, the one he privately thought of as Lorelai's, and eventually pulled the instant photograph to him. He hated to have his photograph taken, much as hated banality, inanity, town festivals for purely frivolous and invented purposes, and the helter-skelter of morning and evening rushes without enough help. He hated it like he hated wearing a suit, or drivers who ignored traffic signs, or processed foods, or…

 _Wow,_ thought Luke. _I hate a lot, don't I. Do I?_

The photograph had finished its developing process. From the murk emerged his face, fury-eyed, drop-mouthed, contempt-tangled, and approximately nine hundred and ninety-four _other_ words.

At the bottom appeared, as if written in magic ink, the words _Careful what you wish for!_

It was followed by two lip-prints and the letters WD.

"This isn't real," said Luke, very clearly, and felt a surge of relief when he _heard_ the echoes bounce back from the walls of his empty diner.

He studied the angry image.

He said, hopefully, "This isn't me."

That time, there was no reassuring echo.

GG GG GG

 **A Bad Idea**

A sensible man despite his fears he'd lost his mind, Luke went upstairs and re-showered to remove the morning from his body and mind alike. Also, he had that expired jock itch powder problem to address.

When he stepped out of the shower, the dryer uttered a soft chime to indicate he had clean, dry, fluffy, soft clothing to wear. He exhaled thanks to whatever luck finally turned his way, and rapidly dried off with a warm towel. He followed up with boxers, jeans, undershirt, flannel, and fresh socks just on principle.

Now that he didn't itch or chafe, he sat on the edge of his lonely bed to contemplate the morning.

After a long half-hour of empty staring into a full laundry basket, Luke stated firmly, "Someone drugged me."

That satisfying solution to insanity was instantly demolished by the fact he had prepared and eaten his own food and drink, before the diner opened. It was highly unlikely someone slipped a drug into the fresh oranges he'd squeezed for juice, or his egg-white scramble.

"Oh geez," he said softly, and mechanically folded things. At one point, he finally noticed he'd folded his boxers three times, and might want to step away from the laundry basket.

"I gotta find that woman," he declared, and grabbed his keys and wallet. He threw on his baseball cap, his old green coat, and was halfway to the back door before his feet mentioned the chill. Groaning, Luke tromped back up the stairs, unlocked the door, and sat down to put on his trainers. "Get a grip, Danes!" he groused at himself. "Just go find WD-Flaky, see what she did, and fix it!"

Once he'd fortified himself with a protein shake, in case low blood sugar was to blame for the day's events, he at last started up the old green truck and began to cruise the streets of Stars Hollow for the woman who had signed herself _WD_. WD what? He wished Lorelai was with him (hardly novel) but he especially wished for the Gilmore presence because her babble (warm chatter?) would distract him from the inevitable conclusion that WD stood for Wacko Danes.

His first stop, rationally, should be the Independence Inn. Lorelai would tell him if the woman was registered as a guest there, and probably ten other things about WD he didn't need to know.

The expression on Lorelai's face when she left the diner flashed into his memory. He swallowed hard. Then again, maybe he preferred to risk death by some gentler means. Say, boiling oil.

"Oh geez," he whispered, and twisted his hands around the steering wheel, the sheen of cold sweat ebbing when a car horn intruded. He rolled down his window to give the other driver a nasty look, while mentally shouting, _Give me a second, ya jerk, stop signs don't change color, I can take my damn time!_

The extent of the lunacy of his day evidenced itself by the double-take of a pedestrian on a corner, and the rude hand gesture of the driver of the car behind him. As that driver passed him. On a town street. In an intersection. Against all common sense and traffic law.

 _Okay, I stand by that one. Hating jerks like that is a public service._

 _Wait, how'd that guy hear me?_

"Oh geez, not again," he moaned, and decided perhaps his best option was to go home, hide, and wait for tomorrow to be better. A few beers, ESPN… Hope that WD came in to the diner so he could... Well, _do_ something.

Someone knocked on the rear window of his truck.

He looked back, using the rear-view mirror attached to the windshield, because only a fool would turn his head completely away from the road while driving.

Seated in the bed of his truck, the woman from the diner waved a cheerful hand.

He stood on the brake, his hat flying off, his seat belt leaving an imprint on his innards, and his bowels briefly affirming that, yes, they could indeed seem to turn to water. He panted, "Oh geez. Crap. Oh geez. Oh crap. Crap. _Crap_. What the _hell_!"

By the last word, the woman had stepped into the cab of the truck, buckled up, and handed him his hat. "You rang?"

Frozen, Luke stuttered, "What? You? This? Going on?"

She reached over to pat his arm.

Luke squawked, "Don't touch me!" and flinched from her touch.

"Oh, don't be so silly," purred the woman. "Three wishes, that's the deal. Rub the lamp, get the genie."

"That's stupid."

"You do know by now most men are thinking about harems and buckets of gold, right?"

"Huh?"

"Will this be easier if I wear a two-piece and fold my arms and blink?"

"What?"

"Twitch my nose? Wave a magic amulet? Honestly, mortals are so hard to keep up with. Your popular culture notions change every other heartbeat. Okay, so here's the deal…"

Luke's mouth overrode the attempt to think coherently, which was just as well, given his state of mind. "Get out of my truck! Wait! No! Stay in my truck! Tell me what you did!"

The woman held up her hands in mock surrender. "Whoa, cowboy, you saved the genie. Well, wish demon, but it's the same concept. Short version? You get three wishes, you're not my master, I don't do belly dances, and no wishing for more wishes."

"This isn't happening," said Luke and thumped his forehead gently into his folded arms, causing the horn of his trunk to give a half-hearted _whonk_.

"Wake up and smell your own coffee. Chaos? Mayhem? Not my gig."

" _What_?"

"You made the wish, you get the consequences. Ta-da! Cosmic balance!" The woman somehow managed a melodramatic flourish in confined quarters. "So, not working out too well?"

"Everyone hates me."

The woman fell abruptly silent, and began examining flawlessly manicured nails polished a color Luke had to describe as _blue_ for lack of a more accurate term. He somehow didn't think _glowing creepy ghost_ qualified as an actual color, despite the evidence of that woman's fingernails.

"Uh… You kinda glow in the dark. Um, daylight," Luke pointed out, scratching a non-existent itch on his neck.

"Whoops," said the woman, and rubbed her hands rapidly together. The color vanished. "Sorry about that. So. Ah. You made the wish. You get the consequences. You wanted them to know what you thought. Now they do. Don't get me wrong," the woman went on with a polite, strained smile. "I've met worse. Wow, this one guy?" She shuddered, nose wrinkling in distaste. "Let's just say, it took surgery before he could fit into his pants again."

Blushing, Luke replied, "I don't wanna hear it!"

She nodded toward the diner sign, visible down the street. "Did they?"

Luke's lungs emptied in a gust of dismay. "I didn't _mean_ it!"

"Ugh, this is why mortals bug me, you know that? Oh, I didn't _mean_ it," she sing-songed in vicious mimicry, her hands clenched. "Then why think it? Why wish it? Temptations, explicit and illicit affairs, erasing people from existence, and then it's all oh-so-sorry." Her eyes rolled, flashing the same radioactive blue as her fingernails had, before she glared at Luke with a strangely reptilian intensity. "That's the deal, buddy. Save the metaphysical construct, three wishes, _consequences_."

"Well, I take it back!" said Luke wildly, quite convinced he'd been drugged. With what, and by whom, he would figure out at a later date. When he'd seen a doctor, at a hospital, because as much as Luke dreaded hospitals, he'd rather suffer one than the continued delusion of…

"Ow!" he hollered, and rubbed the back of his hand, the pinch-mark bright red. "What the hell?"

"You're awake, it's real, you're sober for now, and there's no returns, refunds or exchanges. You wish, you get, done. Now, you have two more wishes…"

Luke remembered the lip marks on the photograph, enlightenment belatedly dawning.

"And you have until eight-twenty tomorrow morning to use them. Then I'm gone, poof, wisp in the wind…"

"You babble worse than Lorelai."

"Do you ever say anything nice?"

Luke's mouth dropped open.

"I'm 'babbling'," she said, her air quotes punctuated by little blue marks as she flicked her fingers, "because you're a slow learner."

Luke rubbed his forehead, but his scowl was set in stone. "This is a bad idea, you're insane, I'm going."

The woman shrugged. "Okay, have it your way. Two unused wishes, hey, whatever you want. Oh, the good news is, it'll be a week at most before the whole thought-talking thing wears off."

"A week!" shouted Luke, and the woman smiled serenely at him as she unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. "A _week_?"

The woman hesitated, and that eerie supernova-blue rippled in her gaze. "Does this mean you want to use a second wish?"

A list of wishes ran through Luke's mind.

His parents alive and well. Liz sober. Family intact. Married to the woman he loved, with a couple of kids, living in Twickham House. Taylor rendered voiceless. No more stupid festivals. People ordering the healthy options off the menu. A world ordered to his liking and…

 _Consequences_.

If his mother was alive, _could_ she be well? What about his father? If Liz never got drunk, would Jess even exist? And which woman? Rachel? Lorelai? What would happen to Old Man Twickham? And a quarter of his tourist-season business came from the festivals, not that he'd tell Taylor that. And…

 _Consequences_.

He blurted, "Second wish."

"Oooh, the fun part," cooed the woman. "Woman of your dreams? Fame, fortune, what?"

Luke said carefully, "Before I answer, will you tell the truth?"

"I'm not allowed to lie, believe it or not."

"Can I have a two-part wish?"

"Conditional wishes do not apply."

"I mean, let's say I want to have this whole know-my-thoughts…" He cringed visibly, and hid his face in shame. "Uh, this whole telepathic thing. I can't believe I said that. Stop." He tapped his temple lightly. "And I hear what they think of me. For the same amount of time they could hear me."

The silence rolled on and on until Luke peeked.

An eyebrow stuck on "surprise", the woman studied him. She said softly, "Well, well, well. Masochism. Haven't run into that for a few centuries. It's been seven hours, you do realize that?"

Luke glanced at his wristwatch, shocked to discover how much of the day had, in fact, passed. It was around four. He had until not quite midnight.

"Say the magic words," crooned the woman.

Uneasy, Luke fiddled with his ball cap. "You tricked me the first time."

"You said the magic words, not me."

Somehow, Luke felt that was up for debate, but concluded he might do better to play to the craziness, and be done.

"I wish I could hear what they think of me, same as they heard me, for the same amount of time, starting now," said Luke in a rush, a chill sweeping through him.

The woman grinned.

" _Wish granted_ ," she whispered.

He clenched his fists, his jaw, and held his eyes tightly shut. If the town had the sort of thoughts he did, then he was going to have consequences by the train-load.

The whir of a camera spitting out a photograph jolted him back to the moment. He shook out his hands, wiped them on his jeans, and accepted the slowly developing instant picture from the woman.

"Oh, by the way, that Taylor person called an emergency town meeting for seven o'clock, to discuss you," she said as she tucked the camera into a pocket that shouldn't have held something that size. "See you!"

She sauntered away, around the corner, and out of sight.

Luke studied the photo in his hand. It did, indeed, speak a thousand words, all of which seemed to be synonyms for "oh this is gonna suck".

A lip mark appeared. So did writing. _Two down, one to go! WD_.

"Oh _crap_ ," said Luke.

GG GG GG

 **A Bad Night**

Never a fan of town meetings, though he'd often lurk at them, Luke skulked in the closed diner until the last straggler wandered past at two minutes before seven.

Apparently, this was going to be a very well-attended meeting.

Now that his thoughts were entirely his own, Luke engaged them in kicking himself for making the second wish. Why had he wanted to know what they thought? Since when did he, Luke Danes, give a damn what someone thought about him, his clothes, his words, or much of anything at all beyond his coffee and food? When had Luke Danes concluded he needed other people, outside of business? And, of course, a little company once in a while, when his apartment reminded him he was turning into a surly loner not unlike his freaky, nutty, unreliable, flake-brained family?

As he locked the door to the diner, and the bells gave a forlorn little _jing?_ , the answer popped into his busy mind.

Oh yeah. This morning, around eight-thirty. When he was facing an empty diner, an empty till, an empty apartment, and all that other empty.

He swallowed hard.

He took out the two instant photos of himself. The third wish loomed large, and he wanted to use it to undo the day, go back to four-thirty in the morning…

 _Consequences_.

As a fan of science fiction, Luke understood more about science than most people realized. Science had many truths. One such immutable truth was that changing the past meant the future did not occur, thereby meaning the reason to change the past did not exist, and so the wish to change the past would not exist, nor the machine to travel back in time to the sight of rapidly-changing mannequins in a dress shop across the street.

One could travel forward. Time's arrow, however, had a very sharp point if someone tried it in the opposite direction. Because, naturally, of _consequences_.

The word Luke sought was _entropy_. In scientific terms, as he'd learned from books, television, and a few of the better films, entropy was the slow decline into disorder of a system. Such as that caused by undoing his parents' deaths, and that resulting from their deaths.

Luke rubbed his neck, his head, and finally pushed a thumb and forefinger together to pinch the bridge of his nose. While he enjoyed the concepts of science as entertainment, applying them to his life had given him a headache. The kind he typically got when dealing with Kirk and Taylor simultaneously.

Shoulders hunched to his ears against a nip in the air, Luke plodded to Miss Patty's, to endure the town meeting.

The barrage of _things_ in his head caused a sharp pain down his spine. He almost went to his knees before his hand touched the door.

Somehow, he had expected to feel emotions. Instead, as promised, he heard words. It was the sort of babble he could tune out during a busy morning at the diner, but it didn't work there on the threshold of the dance studio. His ears clearly _had_ to be involved, yet they buzzed as if numbed. Tsunami waves of sound rolled into his brain, drowned his capacity to think. He found himself leaning on the door, ear pressed to the cold of it, anchoring him.

It took him a few panicky heartbeats to clarify what was actual sound, and what was _thoughts_.

The sound was Taylor's mosquito-whine voice, the one reserved for his most indignant and self-righteous speeches. "…reprehensible, unacceptable, unforgivable..."

The chorus of "Yes!" and "Mm-hmm!" was undercut by and overrun by the hum of _can't believe/what a/impossible/rude/poor Luke/no parents poor/awful things_.

"Hey!"

 _Hey!_

The strident thought-shout silenced all else, and Luke exhaled hard, wondering what Lorelai would say, after the morning's debacle in the diner.

Her words were a very clear, "Luke can think what he wants, and say what he wants, just like anyone else, Taylor! We don't have to like it! We don't always like what you say, right?"

There were murmurs and a susurration of _she's right_ / _Taylor/such a…_

"And everyone," Lorelai's voice cracked, "has a bad day, okay? So just… Lay off, okay? I'm not real thrilled, either, he made Rory upset, nobody upsets my kid if I can help it, but I'm sure…"

Her words were one thing. Her thoughts, which twisted his forehead into a painful scowl, registered as _Can't believe him we're friends aren't we but maybe not I'm just a customer coffee annoying person Rory hurting Rory hurting think of Rory Rory Rory Rory…_

"I'm sure!" yelled Lorelai over the babble. "Luke just had! A bad! Day! Will you shut up! Oh my God I can't believe I'm telling someone else to shut up! Will everyone shut up!"

 _Will my brain shut up!_

There was no silence from the crowd, but Luke wanted to punch himself for hurting Lorelai. And there she was, probably standing, blue eyes flashing, hair tossing, defending him to the town.

Guilt had a flavor. It was bile.

The gavel banged. The rush of thoughts became _Taylor/jerk/gavel up his/ow/too loud_.

"Lorelai, I'm sure we respect your defense of the Bill of Rights freedom of speech…"

 _Not that kind of speech_ , was the thought erupting from Taylor, as clearly as if he'd shouted in Luke's ear.

"But he offended the leading citizens…"

"Kirk is a leading citizen?" yelped Gypsy, and for a sweet change, her thoughts matched her words. Luke's respect for her increased. No-nonsense, thought-word cohesion was very appealing at the moment. It lessened his headache.

The argument over that, flavored by Kirk's wounded _No one respects me Luke not my friend either life sucky_ , turned Luke's stomach.

Luke did not hate his hometown, but he hated the people, and he often cited the festivals, the silliness of town meetings, the enthusiasm with which people embraced such things. What he truly didn't like, he discovered in that moment, was that the faces shown to the world hid all the realities of the people. His own included.

He swallowed hard as the babbling of mouths and minds alike struck into his brain, knife-sharp, boulder-heavy, burn-hot. Irritation over Taylor, him, Kirk, Lorelai, town meetings, were inundating the dance studio, Luke, the air itself. The words reminded him of bubbles in a pot of boiling water, and the sensation in his head was much the same.

He backed away from the door as the thoughts again turned to _Luke/jerk/bad/rude/stupid/mean/poor boy/gentle inside/since parents died/no life no manners/doesn't care about this town/hates me/sullen loser_.

Luke was, by his own reckoning, not a coward. Nor was he a sullen loser. He helped old ladies across the street, he fixed porches for Lorelai, he never charged first-time customers, and he tried not to curse where small children might hear him.

Someone was coming near the door. Luke knew it by the sudden intensity of a single thought.

 _Poor Luke, ever since his father died and Rachel left, he's worse and worse, we have to cut him some slack, I'm sure Morey misheard what he says he heard about Lorelai, I've known Luke for years, it's been so hard for him, really, the poor thing…_

He finally realized he was hearing Miss Patty, and frowned, shocked to discover he was an object of pity.

 _And that girl just doesn't see how perfect they are, of course he won't make the first move, she's too flighty, he's right about that, flit flit flutter man to man, honestly, she's not a very good example to Rory, that poor little girl…_

Luke's stomach did a back-flip. Miss Patty thought that of Lorelai? Who at least had the guts to go on dates. A lot of first dates, most of them abruptly ending an hour or more before Babette or Mrs. Kim expected Lorelai to come home. The whispers in the diner were that she of course must be going to bed on those dates, using the men for sex, such a lovely woman must have an active sex life…

And those whispers, Luke understood with a surge of nausea, had sunk into his own lonely soul, skewing what he believed without his consciousness knowing it, until his emotions let it out, on a wish.

The reason Luke hated gossip was its effect on people's opinions. He hadn't stopped to consider its influence on _his_.

Or that it had any.

It turned out that gossip, like air pollution, affected him whether or not he contributed to it.

Miss Patty exhaled loudly and, to Luke's surprise, lit a cigarette. A sweet puff of smoke traveled downwind, and proved it was not, in fact, a tobacco cigarette. He was now too physically far away to know for certain what went through Miss Patty's mind, but he could guess by the his view of her face by the town's ever-present twinkling white lights. She'd just escaped reality, and found a moment's peace.

After a second puff, Patty delicately stubbed out the not-really-a-cigarette, tucked it away, and spritzed herself with a tiny bottle of something. The fact he could smell her perfume before her saw her was suddenly explained.

Enough was enough.

Luke went home.

GG GG GG

 **A Bad Taste**

After a beer, Luke concluded he needed something stronger. A drink capable of giving him a do-over.

He looked at a second beer, and put it back in the fridge. He decided to brew a cup of peppermint tea, to rinse the bad taste out of his mouth. Brain. Soul. All three, if possible.

The water began to burble in the kettle. He sighed in relief. The day was over. He had a third wish, yes, but he'd call off sick until nine in the morning, and not move out of his bed. That should minimize the problem.

 _Who am I kidding? This won't go away if I ignore it. Will it?_

Staring at the steeping liquid, Luke groaned and quoted Lorelai softly. "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, Cleo."

"Actually, you're thinking of avoidance. Sorry, locks don't keep me out."

Somehow, Luke had no ability to be startled. "Hey."

The woman pulled up a chair at the table, sat down, and propped her chin on her hands. "Well. Penance served?"

"There's no way to undo this, is there."

"Sorry."

To her credit, whatever she was, she did sound sorry.

Luke set his teabag on the saucer, lifted the cup, and took a long slow sip. The cool-hot taste soothed him, physically. Emotionally, he was understandably a wreck.

"Can I wish away their memories?"

"Theirs. Not yours. Not your wish to wish. I mean, you could, but, well, that consequences thing again. Why?"

Luke shrugged. "My stupid wish got them into it. Me into it. Whatever. Never mind. Stupid idea. They'd probably forget something like an appointment to get a tumor removed."

"Wow, you catastrophize readily. Cup half-empty, no silver linings, and so on." The woman nodded at his fully-empty tea cup. "You could just wish for an Irish coffee and to hell with it. I've heard stranger requests."

Luke sought something that made sense, and unfortunately came up with Disney. "If I wish you free…"

The woman laughed. "No, I don't suddenly lose the lamp, drop the bracelets, or turn into a housewife in a twin-set. No wishing me free, because I'm not _stuck_."

Luke studied his cup. Tea leaves were only tea leaves, and told nothing other than the fact of an empty cup, and a broken tea bag. How he of all men wound up in this position (and he could just imagine Lorelai's wicked eyes-only grin)…

"Can I wish to undo the first wish?"

"Time. Causality."

Weariness and frustration transformed to anger. "Why? You're not possible, so why does it matter?"

"Look, I'm metaphysical, sure, but you're bound by physics." The woman rapped her knuckles on the table as Luke was known to do to attract attention. He lifted his gaze to hers as she continued, "Regular physics. Even the quantum-y stuff, which frankly gives me the creeps."

Somehow, that gave Luke pause. And another cold wash of sensation down his spine, another reminder bowels could seem to turn to water. "So if I wished my parents alive…"

"Yeah, sorry, no can do. Undoing the past, nope. Changing futures, well, that's on you. Me, I'm in the present, that's why I'm a gift, baby."

That sounded like something Lorelai would say. But Lorelai's eyes were sapphire, not neon-sign blue.

His heart twanged. Okay, she had run from Max, the way Rachel ran from him. But Rachel had avowed love, and repeatedly swore _this time_ she would settle down. Lorelai was already settled down. House, job, kid, car, the whole works. She was going to college for her business degree. She wasn't going anywhere. She could have done so a hundred times. And there she remained, in his diner two or three times a day, breezing in with a noisy demand for coffee…

His brain whispered _Luke's attention_.

…like a kid…

 _Who had a kid and has a house and a job and a car and wants a degree and sucks at relationships because she never has any… Wait, why do I think that? She's got Sookie, Rory, me, she's on good terms with people, Mia adores her, okay, she bailed on Max, but should she marry someone she doesn't really love?_

The trap he might have fallen into, had Rachel not seen what Rachel had seen, loomed terrifyingly large. Yes, he might be married to Rachel, who would take photos for the local newspapers, and his heart would not be wholly in the marriage, and hers would be breaking for the lost chances of her true passion. That was no marriage. That was a divorce on a time-delay fuse.

"Shit," whispered Luke and scrubbed his hands over his face.

He was _poor Luke_ because Rachel left, and he never let anyone in Stars Hollow know if he dated. He kept that out of town. As if…

 _Am I ashamed? No. I'm private. But it sure does seem as if I might be ashamed. Ah, crap_.

"So, got a wish, or should I leave?"

"Who hurts worse?" asked Luke somberly, his thumb running around the rim of the cup. "The person who's scared, but tries and pulls back, or the person who's scared, and doesn't try at all?"

"I'm going to guess pain is pain, fear is fear, and there's no ruler to measure which is worse. It all sucks for the person feeling it. In the opinion of a metaphysical construct, of course. Self-pity, now, that one's for the experts."

Luke wanted to rail that he did not pity himself, but the echo of Patty's thoughts clung to him, not unlike perfume sticking to Patty.

"I'm not great at multi-tasking."

"Nah, you just take orders, track orders, cook orders, make change, write out bills and receipts, and clear tables."

Luke's mouth hung open.

The woman grinned at him, with a singularly distressing glint of that blue around her teeth. "I've been at this a while. If I ever retire, I'll give Oprah and Doctor Phil a run for their money. I've seen human lives for a really long time. A really long time," she repeated glumly, and shrugged, her smile fading. "The truth is, you all want to be protected from any potential pain, but you all want love, too. It's this essential conundrum. You have to risk pain to have love, but if you deny love, you hurt anyway. Pick your poison, champ, you all die sooner or later. Wheat bran…" She glanced at his cupboards with raised eyebrows. "Or cheeseburgers. Life's fatal, either way. And take it from one who knows. No human can control everything in the universe. Or their immediate vicinity. I've granted _that_ wish often enough to know. Your history books are full of the consequences."

That word annoyed Luke into, "I don't do philosophy."

"What do you do?"

Luke said automatically, "I wish…"

She waited, eyes narrowed.

What did he wish?

"Yeah," said the woman silkily, "that the world would do what you tell it. The inevitable wish of someone who won't control him _self_."

"I'm not some kid running around treating life like a joke!"

And, suddenly, there across from him sat… _Him_.

Flannel. Ball cap. Jeans. Ratty green jacket. Stubble. Stuck? Guarded? Refusing to move? What the hell was it in that person, minus the fact the eyes were all lightning-blue?

 _I wish to hell I knew what to do next._

He blinked. The woman sat there, head tipped to one side, for all the world like a curious bird. She let out a low whistling, " _Wish granted_."

He caught his breath. He finally knew why she had defied all definition in his head beyond the _WD_. She wasn't the same woman, yet she was. Always the same in the pale blue eyes that glinted like stars.

" _Mom_?" he gasped.

A flash popped.

With a great sucking in of air, Luke awoke.

GG GG GG

 **A Bad Dream?**

"Oh thank God," said a female voice, and for a moment, Luke wondered if it was Rachel, Liz, his mother, or a total stranger who granted wishes.

He opened his eyes to someone who was warm and fun like his mother, endlessly enthusiastic about life like Rachel, determinedly cheerful and avoidant like Liz, but unlike all of those, quite firmly there, by his side.

"Lorelai," he said. "Hi."

"Hi," she echoed, laying his hand back on the bed. "Now, before you panic, because I know you hate doctors, you _are_ in the hospital, but it's not as bad as you think, or as we thought, you just passed out, but it turns out you actually slipped on some wet floor because some stupid tourist tracked in the yucky stuff, and you hit your head on Kirk's knee, and apparently Kirk has really, _really_ bony knees because you got a concussion and you've been out for hours and…"

"Shh," said Luke with a wince. "I what? But… Wait. How? No. How many hours?"

From behind Lorelai came a prompt, thin, "One and a half."

Luke shifted his gaze, and found a white-faced Rory lurking in the chair behind Lorelai's. "Oh geez."

"It's okay," said Lorelai immediately, "you're going to be fine, they kept you for observation, and you weren't really unconscious the whole time, you sorta woke up a few times…"

"Mom yelled at you," said Rory with a glare at her mother.

"Good," said Luke.

Both Gilmores did a double-take worthy of a Charlie Chaplin classic short.

"I heard," added Luke.

"Oh," replied Lorelai, squirming back an inch or two. "Um. Wow, so I really can wake the, um, yeah, never mind."

"Did I fracture my skull?" was Luke's next, very sensible question.

"No."

"Anything else fractured?"

Lorelai stifled a snort. Rory outright giggled.

"Joke?" asked Luke plaintively.

Lorelai's face crinkled up with mirth. "Um, Kirk has really bony knees, but you have a _really_ hard head, because you cracked his kneecap."

"I kneecapped Kirk with my _head_?"

The Gilmores both snickered.

Luke snickered.

"We took turns, sitting by you, so you wouldn't wake up alone," said Lorelai after a moment. "Rory, honey, go tell the nurse he's awake, then go sit with Babette, okay?"

"Babette?"

"Half the town's in the waiting room. Hartford General's been invaded."

Luke measured his headache against the possibilities. A concussion via Kirk's kneecap seemed somehow in keeping with life in Stars Hollow.

A nurse bustled in, smiling the fake-pleasant smile of overworked nurses everywhere. "The neurologist will be here in a few minutes."

Luke translated that to _a few hours, possibly tomorrow, after his golf game_.

"Oh, um, I hope you don't mind, but, um, the hospital kinda took your clothes, so I got fresh ones for you?" Lorelai reddened. "I'm sorry, I had to, um, get some… Under-thingies. Y'know." She glanced down, and gestured vaguely. "I had to guess so I bought, uh, y'know, lots, and they're not pre-washed but it's just till you get home and Caesar wouldn't go, so it's not really my fault." Lorelai winced without any exaggeration whatsoever. "Apparently, it's girly to touch another man's underwear, so he made the girl do it."

Luke couldn't scowl without worsening his headache, so he settled for a groan of dismay. The expired jock-itch powder wasn't a dream, then. "I had the worst morning."

"Before the head thing?"

"Oh yeah."

Lorelai let out a long, slow, shaking breath, and smiled with too-bright eyes. "Wasn't so great for us, either. You'd sort of be here, then not. We were really worried. The doctor said you were probably sleeping most of this time, I think Mr. Health Nut is going to get a lecture on his sleeping habits."

"Gah," grumbled Luke, but felt absurdly pleased it was Lorelai by his bedside.

 _I wish to hell I knew what to do next_.

"Uh, Lorelai?"

She leapt as if hit by a cattle prod. "Is it pain? Do you need…"

Despite the ache, pain, and brain-jelly sensations, Luke smiled. "Thanks. And, um, I was meaning to ask you."

 _Actually, no, I wasn't, but I mean to now…_

"You over Max?"

The queen of the non sequitur dropped her head, and he read shame in her murmured, "I shouldn't be. I mean, him, yes. The mess I made, I dunno."

"You think you're going to date anytime soon?"

"How hard did you hit your head?"

"Answer the question."

"Depends who asks."

"Wanna grab dinner and see a movie in a couple weeks?"

Her panic was, alas, not entirely feigned. "Oh my God, you're delirious, I have to…"

He caught at her hand as she rose. "Lorelai."

She studied his face, her eyes so full of terror under their sparkle that Luke squeezed her fingers gently to reassure her. He finally told her what he'd meant to tell her for months.

"Rachel left because she knew I wasn't interested. In her. Making it work with her. Even trying to make it work."

"Well, she did have a pretty interesting track record and you have every right to be cautious and…"

"Do you ever shut up?"

"No. If I stop talking, then other people talk, and I hear scary mean things."

She meant it as a joke, but there was too much truth in it for humor, for Luke's taste.

"Lorelai, she left because she knew I'd already gotten over her and moved on."

"Okay?"

"Are you over Max?"

"Yeah," came her abashed whisper.

"And Rory's dad is…"

"Ugh," said Lorelai, a tear sliding off her face and onto their linked hands. "Big talk, no action. Okay, leaving is an action, but not a good one, but Rory keeps hoping and I don't want to let her down, I mean, Chris does enough of that, so if I don't play nice, he won't show up at all, and I hate it but that's Chris and she needs her dad and I'm shutting up now."

Luke never imagined he'd be grateful for a concussion. "Would Rory be okay with me taking you on a date?"

At that, Lorelai flinched.

Something cold ran down Luke's spine, and this time, he knew it was not a draft from the paper gown the hospital put on him. "Wait, Rory wouldn't…"

Pale, Lorelai admitted, "She… A couple times, I asked her if she'd be okay with it, but she said no, because I'll screw it up and then… Then we'll starve."

Perhaps the concussion had shifted some mental gear from _neutral_ to _vocal_ , since Luke blurted, "Rory said _what_ to you?"

"No, it's okay, she's right, I can't get her dad to stay and I raised her in a potting shed and…"

"You never told me she said that!"

"Well, I'm sorry, okay!" yipped Lorelai, pulling away and twisting to hide her face from him. "I don't like to advertise that my kid thinks I'm a screw-up!"

Luke tried to hug her, but the IV and the wires interfered. He ended up setting off three alarms, and getting caught on the bed rail. "Damn it," he snapped, "I hate hospitals, I'm going home. And answer the question, Lorelai, would you go on a date, with me, dinner, movie?"

"We're friends…"

Her uncertainty hurt. Then again, his own had done no wonders for anyone.

"…and you're all concussed and stuff, you'll regret it when you're normal again."

As a nurse, a doctor, and some random person in hospital green rushed in to untangle wires and tubes, Luke pondered that. Would he regret it?

"More time," he said sharply, "means more scars. And more scars means more excuses. And no offense to Rory, but she's a kid, what the hell does she know about it?"

"I thought I just annoyed you. In a good way, like a cat or rain or something, but…"

He raised his voice to shout, "Damn it!" exactly as the alarms went silent.

He became aware of their audience.

He turned crimson.

"When you're, y'know, done getting your head examined," said Lorelai uneasily, "we can… You can decide if you… I won't hold you to anything said under duress and concussion, I promise. But if you don't change your mind… I think dinner, you, me," her finger ticked back and forth, "would be fun. I mean, we already know a lot, so we can skip all the creepy first date stuff and wondering if the person's a serial killer or has a collection of clown memorabilia or something."

"I have no idea how your mind works," declared Luke, grinning, "but I won't change my mind."

The medical types were babbling about MRI, CT, X-ray, EEG, and similar, but Luke still heard Lorelai say, as she backed out of the treatment room, "Good. Okay. Yeah. I hope not."

Luke beamed at the nurse adjusting his IV. "Wish granted," he said.

GG GG GG

AN: As I said, inspired by a wish demon episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".

My husband, bless him, once did use expired "jock itch" powder. Suffice to say, don't. WD-Flaky is a pun on the product WD-40, a common household and mechanical lubricant in the US.


End file.
